


Upon Return

by siennna



Series: sienna's favorites [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:52:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’ll raise his gray eyes to meet yours and when he says John it won’t sound like your name, it’ll sound like gunshots and car crashes and endless downpour shattering against a tin roof; it’ll sound beseeching and rough, breakable like glass, pure like the fresh turn of a season, desperate and shaky like his thin, pale hands."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon Return

**Author's Note:**

> Happy late Valentines Day, lovelies! Here's some post-reichenbach reunion angst for ya'll<3
> 
> Enjoy!

When Sherlock comes back, there will be four layers to your reunion.

 

(The first layer will be hollowed-eyed shock, uncertainty, and surprise; it'll taste like heartbreak and pain, but there will be a sharp dagger of relief gleaming amongst the blackness)

It will start when he comes back on a violet-skied Tuesday evening, standing there on the doorstep with his hair so long that the tips curl against his shoulders and his face looking as tired and old as that of a broken soldier trudging back from war. He'll raise his gray eyes to meet yours and when he says _John_ it won't sound like your name, it'll sound like gunshots and car crashes and endless downpour shattering against a tin roof; it'll sound beseeching and rough, breakable like glass, pure like the fresh turn of a season, desperate and shaky like his thin, pale hands.

You won't know what to do, so you'll open the door a little wider, wide enough for his barely-there form to fit through, and allow him to slink inside, up the stairs, past the door, into the flat. When you're there, you'll close the door behind him and he'll stand in the middle of the room, turning slowly and admiring everything with hungry eyes.

You won't know how to talk to him. You won't know how to explain the bright, piercing ache in your chest. So instead you'll swallow your words and swallow your emotions and simply say _Why did you come back?_

He won't answer for a long time, but when he does his voice will rumble quietly like thunder. _You must understand I never wanted to leave._

You'll stare at the space over his shoulder. _I see._

It's strange, but you'll feel detached from the situation, possibly because the shock has yet to wear off, and you won't know what to do with your restless hands, so you'll drift into the kitchen to make tea. The motions will be soothing, familiar, and will ultimately settle your frayed, unsure nerves.

Everything in the flat will feel tense and oppressive, but it won't be until you're sitting down across from him with your steaming cup of tea that it finally _clicks_ how utterly mad this is. Sherlock Holmes, the man you deemed dead for the past two years, is three feet away from you drinking bloody PG tips out of a cracked enamel mug, acting as if he has any bloody right to act nonchalant.

 

(The second is angry and throbbing-red: puckered scars bursting open, old wounds splitting at their seams—you'll see scarlet and want to yell and yell and yell until your throat tears and the walls shake and his quiet, unreadable expression finally melts into something resembling penitence)

 _You LEFT me,_ you'll shout and your voice will sound stark and harsh against the absolute silence of the flat. _You LIED to me._

He'll cringe away, cast his gaze to the floor, close his eyes, but there will be lava pulsing in your veins, so instead of giving him the distance he clearly craves, you'll take deliberate steps forward and corner him. He'll backpedal until his thin shoulders bump into the wall behind him, but you'll just keep crowding closer.

 _I was alone for two years! I thought you were DEAD. You made me think you killed yourself—how could you do that to me? I thought—I thought I meant something to you,_ you'll cry out, ignoring the prickling sensation of tears.

His eyes will look ancient and inexplicably sad when you say that. _Is that truly what you think, John?_ _That you mean nothing to me?_ In the heavy silence that follows, he'll read the answer in every line of your face and each unspoken word.

Quietly, beseechingly, he'll say, _You matter, John, of course you do. That's why I left—to save you. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you._

Your heart will slam against your ribs like the steady, excited beat of a drum and it will occur to you how strange it is to have him this close after so many years: alive, warm, quivering like a plucked violin string. You'll put your hands on his forearms and squeeze lightly, not to hurt him, but to ground yourself: to remind yourself that this is indeed real. He won't move out of your grip, he'll merely watch you with steady, unsure eyes. Of their own accord, your palms will travel up his shoulders, carefully tracing the sharp jut of his collarbones and the smooth plane of his chest, dancing briefly along the blunt shape of his hipbone, then back to his elegant, faintly tremoring hands. You'll brush your fingers against his and he'll sigh, shuddering and raw, and close his eyes.

For some reason, your anger will dissipate at the sound and something warm will take its place.

_John?_

It'll be a question this time. He'll tentatively raise a large palm to your face and brush his thumb so lightly, so tenderly, against your cheek that for a moment your heart will break; his eyes will look like clear, guileless pools. He'll ask it again. _John?_

You'll think about all the nights spent alone, the funeral you held for him, the flowers that wilted at his gravesite, the cold feeling of dread that took permanent residence in your bones, the emptiness and regret that seemed to follow you everywhere like a ghost; you'll remember that when he left, he destroyed you.

But.

You'll also think about the electric pulse that shot up your spine every time he looked at you, the evenings spent lounging in the sitting room with tea and comfortable silence, the mad, adrenaline-fueled chases down dark alleyways, the sparse, secret moments when you'd catch him staring at you with a faraway look and a rare smile; you'll realize that he is undeniably a part of you. You'll realize that what you feel for him goes deeper than simple want and desire—you'll realize you need him.

But more importantly, you'll realize you forgive him.

He'll take a deep breath and brace himself against the wall. _Hit me, yell at me; whatever you need to do to make this right, do it,_ he'll say.

You'll step forward. He'll close his eyes. _Go on, John. I deserve it._

But you won't hit him and you won't yell and when you raise your hand it won't be in violence. Instead, you'll stand on your toes, cup his face in your palm, and kiss him _._

 

(The third is passionate and wild, a frenzied blur of limbs and tongues and teeth, apologies murmured against throats, heartbeats slamming together through heaving chests, fingers scrambling and struggling for purchase in jumpers, curls, skin, hips. The pain will burn away under the heated kisses and blistering, desperate touches; the forgiveness will rush in like a flood and soothe all wounds)

You'll kiss him like his mouth is an altar. You'll worship the smooth white planes of his skin and plant your lips on each of his scars, blessing the flaws and perfections alike. He is an angel: all raven curls and willowy hips, lean muscles roped around long limbs, creamy white skin, strong, pronounced ankles, delicate wrists. He has the hands of an artist. You'll kiss his knuckles and press his palm flat to your chest, so he can feel the erratic drumbeat thudding there, so he'll know what he does to you. Know how he destroys you—know how he _builds_ you.

He'll feel so alive and warm and _real_ beneath your hands that for a moment you'll want to sob at the beauty of it. You'll watch as he arcs and writhes on your bed, back bowed, lily-white neck bared, and you'll think he is the loveliest thing you've ever seen.

Afterwards, when the high has fallen and your mingled breathing has evened out, you'll tug him close and hold his face against your collarbones, one hand clutching at his curved back, the other intertwined in his hair, and you'll do your best not to cry into his curls. Your chest will feel compressed and full, but it will be a sweet ache.

 

(The fourth is breathy and romantic, told in the warm spaces where your limbs are entwined, captured in the sweet kisses that trail from ear to jaw and back again, preserved in the comforting rise and fall of his chest and the soft ease of silence)

You'll say it quietly, brush it against his forehead while he flirts with the notion of sleep, thinking he won't hear it, half-hoping that he might.

Later, when he opens his eyes, shuffles closer, and murmurs it back, the stars will fall into alignment, the clouds will part, storms will cease, gratitude will settle in your lungs and flavor your breath with relief, sorrow will evaporate, heartache will abate, and the words will sound like benediction.

It will feel like coming home. It will feel like being found. It will feel like some vital piece is finally falling into place after so many years spent incomplete.

_I love you too, John._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, darlings, feedback would be lovely! :)


End file.
